Albert Kove. "You're so tanned and beautiful," she said, "I'm jealous. How was Tobago?" Albert Kove was in his mid-forties, but with his cropped, salty-blond hair, collegiate wire-rim glasses, and rolled-up shirtsleeves he could pass for thirty-five. His movements were habitually slow and deliberate, in direct contrast to Sylvia's impulsive edginess. His careful speech and measured physicality always made his female associate want to jam at warp speed. Silently she ordered herself to slow to his pace. He considered his response. "The island is lush, the snorkeling is incredible. It's not too touristy, and the locals don't seem to mind the intrusion. I give it another three years before it's overrun—" She interrupted. "Did Carlos have a good time?" Carlos Giron was Kove's longtime domestic partner. Kove grinned. "Too good. Too many rum punches, too many coconuts. He has to do penance for the next month. A low-fat diet." "We missed you." Kove had created the Forensic Evaluation Unit in 1984.
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